


No Light, No Light

by JoiningJoice



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blind Character, M/M, i'm not sure how i should tag this, it's mostly Jean's thoughts on what happened and Marco being an angel, war injures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 18:54:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2399141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoiningJoice/pseuds/JoiningJoice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- It feels weird. - he answers. - It's like...learning how to read, when you're a child. -<br/>Jean frowns.<br/>He doesn't know what else he should say; there's nothing worth talking about. He knows that if he was braver he'd apologize to Marco, screaming with the same strength he felt when he found him lying in his own blood, on the streets of Trost; he's aware that if he was more mature he'd apologize for not being there when the assassin that almost sliced his face in half hitted him, injuring both his eyes with just one expert motion and shutting down forever Marco's sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Light, No Light

**Author's Note:**

> You are the night time fear, you are the morning when it's clear  
> When it's over, you're the start; you're my head, you're my heart

 

Jean never loved physical contact. It doesn't reject him, but sure it gets on his nerves to be touched by someone else; it's something he just can't fight.

For this reason, when the shaking fingers of the boy sitting in front of him start to skim on his features, Jean winces just a little bit; but those fingers are so unsure and scared by the idea of touching him that the annoyance vanishes as quick as it came, and Jean just wants to go on, wants Marco to go deeper, so deep that his fingers will remain impressed on his skin. He wants Marco to memorize his face until he knows it so well that he just can't forget it, not even if he wants to.

But this isn't what the doctors asked to him, no; the doctors asked him to be careful, be slow, to give Marco the time to get used to _that_.

Jean opens his eyes to watch his best friend, the shadows of two long scars escaping the bands narrowed on his eyes. For a moment he's painfully tempted to raise one hand and reciprocate the way Marco is touching him, to brush the gauzes blocking the sight of two amber eyes that will never see again; two eyes that will never see _him_ again.

\- How's it going?. - he whispers.

The index of Marco's right hand touches one of his cheekbone; the other fingers are brushing on his nape, where his hair is shorter, almost completely shaved. The smile on Marco's lips is so honest and so sudden that it almost looks painful.

\- It feels weird. - he answers. - It's like...learning how to read, when you're a child. -

Jean frowns.

He doesn't know what else he should say; there's nothing worth talking about. He knows that if he was braver he'd apologize to Marco, screaming with the same strength he felt when he found him lying in his own blood, on the streets of Trost; he's aware that if he was more mature he'd apologize for not being there when the assassin that almost sliced his face in half hitted him, injuring both his eyes with just one expert motion and shutting down forever Marco's sight.

But he's none of those two things. He's not brave, because he yelled out of desperation at the woman who tried to help him, screaming her to stay away, to not getting any close, too scared by the blood that just wouldn't stop to drain for Marco's eyes. He's not mature, because he protested at the doctor's proposal of ending Marco's life because of his conditions, and his choice condamned Marco to a life that he, Jean is sure of it, doesn't want.  
No chance to get back on the fighting field. No chance to have a job that may satisfy him, that could make him smile again.

He condamned him to a living hell, the life of a crippled, a _blind;_ And all of this was just because he's so goddamn selfish, because he's too afraid to lose the only shoulder he could ever land on, the only hand able to touch him without hurting him.

\- If I just... touch here. - Marco murmurs, touching his forehead. - I can understand that you're tense. And I can feel your breathe irregular against my skin. -  
Both of Marco's hands wander down, toward his lips.  
\- Your mouth is so firm shut, Jean. Are you...are you mad?

If he was braver, and more mature, if he was more honest, Jean would answer that yes, he is.

But, again, he's none of these things. And his heart tightens a little bit more when he sees Marco wincing, afraid of what just happened; afraid of the low and weak moan that lef Jean's lips, and of the tears that are wetting his fingers and palms.

Without saying a word – they never needed those – Marco slowly dries both of Jean's eyes with his fingertips. He's not smiling, now; he's not trying to explain Jean how that new dark world of his works.

The younger man brings his hand on Marco's and holds it, pressing it against his face, cursing every fear he ever had to getting any more close to him. With his eyes closed and unable to stop sobbing, Jean doesn't get away when unknown lips met his and press against them, trying to erase the tremble in his breathe. He doesn't even get closer, letting Marco find him; he's not even brave enough to do that, and he hates himself for this.

Marco's lips are playing with his, now, slowly opening them; they're dry, but they quickly gets wet with the same tears that already wet Jean's. And they're smiling, trying to bring comfort without any success. Jean lowers his head, and Marco's lips are placed against his forehead, his nose sunk in his blond hair.

\- You'll never see anything again. You'll never see _me_. - Jean whispers. He's not apologizing, he's not confessing his love and he's being selfish, but that's just what he's able to say. And somehow, he feels it's the only thing worth saying.  
Marco's reply is quick and natural. - I don't need to. -

Once again, their hands find each other, they tighten, they search for the other frantically; Jean is looking at him again, and it's just like Marco knows, it's just like he never stopped to look at him with those eyes full of scolding and lot, lot of unrequited love. When Jean moves towards him to kiss him again, Marco is there, waiting for him.

There, like always.

 

_\- Five Years Later, At Trost's Gate -_

 

 

People were used to let him walk, for gentleness or just respect, aware that those running on his cheeks were war injures. Marco Bodt never had a problem with walking in a crowd, not even in those as big as the one he was currently in.

And most of all, he knew where he had to go.

He realized he reached his spost when he felt the crowd behind his back, and fresh air in front of him; the neighs of the horses were closer, and the dust their hooves lifted up was itching his nose.

He turned right and left, waiting with his usual patience and placing both hands on his cane, every sense aware of what was happening around him. He felt a baby's hand tugging his shirt and bend down, assuring himself to where he thought the baby's face should have been. The boy placed his little hand on one of the scars that running from his forehead to his cheeks, without asking how or where he made it.

\- Who are you waiting for? - he asked instead.

Marco raised his index, asking for a moment; the child had to wait just a bunch of seconds, before Marco raised up and put his cane in middle air, stopping it right in front of a horse's nose.

The animale neighed nervously; Marco started laughing, aware that the boy who was riding him was having a hard time calming him down. He finally did it, and he jumped down from him, leaving the reins to another soldier.

\- You know my horse hates that little trick of yourse. - Jean smiled. Then, without actually waiting for a reply, he pulled him into a tight hug.

\- I've missed you. - he whispered to Marco's ear.

The boy smiled, his face placed against Jean's shoulder; and when the younger guy moved a little bit back just to press his lips on both his scars, he had nothing to say about it. It was a sort of ritual between them.

\- I've missed you too. - he answered, voice low and fingers running on Jean's features.  
He remembered every detail of it. How high his cheekbones were, how long it was, how bright and light his long eyes were; the eternal frown, relaxed in some rare moments. He knew Jean was the only light he needed in his dark world.

He squeezed his hand, smiling at the cold metal of the ring on Jean's ring finger against his skin.

\- I've missed you too. -

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, I'm not used to post my stories on AO3 - mostly because translating is hard, like, REALLY HARD, and I'm not sure I did a good job or I completely fucked up.  
> We'll see, I guess.  
> This work was originally posted on the italian fanfiction site, EFP, and is currently my most viewed one-shot; it also got amazing fanart by the brilliant hanatsuki89. You can see it here (http://hanatsuki89.tumblr.com/post/95903296698/this-is-one-of-the-best-one-shots-ive-ever-read); and judging by the tags/replies on that post, oh god, you have no idea how I feel when I read that non-italian people are glad they know italian just so they could read it.  
> So...I tried. Let me know if I made any mistakes, or just how you feel about the whole thing.  
> And thanks for reading.


End file.
